


it's gonna burn if we get closer

by eomerking



Category: The 100 (TV), Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: AU, Aliases, American Revolution, F/M, Historical AU, Lies, So many lies, Turn AU, basically spies an shit during the american revolution, bells a suspicious sleuther and clarke is wanting nothing to do with any of it, i guess i've gone a little graphic with the gore, non-canon universe, soz about that guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-16 07:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7259065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eomerking/pseuds/eomerking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1780, the American Revolution.</p><p>Clarke is a woman living alone in the wilds of the East coast, isolated and on the verge of lunacy. Bellamy is an intelligence officer in the Continental Army, caught off-guard on a mission that raises the stakes for the entire revolution. When an injured Bellamy stumbled to Clarke's door during the night, snap decisions on both sides will shape the course of more than just two, lonely lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. candlelight

**Author's Note:**

> righto.  
> so lately, Turn has been my fave thing to watch an i'm ever so slightly obsessed, so obvs mashing it together with my other fave thing makes heaps of sense.  
> disclaimer: as a brit my knowledge of american history is basically nonexistant and likely to be skewed anyways, so if any history buffs spot any glaring faults pls do hit me up on it gracias  
> disclaimer #2: i kinda wrote this in a rush so i'm super sorry for any mistakes of the grammatical kind lmao

_1780, New Jersey_

Clarke heard the gunshot as if it came from within her own home, it was just so loud. It echoed through the woods that surrounded her house, ripping through the silence that had become the backdrop of her life. Clarke flinched and her hands shook; the sounding of only one, solitary shot not lessening the fear she felt blossoming in her breast.

There were no homesteads around for miles; only empty hunting shacks and lazily disassembled camps. Clarke was a good walk from the road that cut through this part of the forest, alone in her house with naught but animals for company. Isolation from other people was part of her punishment, away from the towns and the bustle she had once scorned, but now dearly missed. Deliveries of necessities were made only once a month – her mother keeping up on her familial duties – and the two maids that were chosen to join Clarke in her banishment with had long since fled. Not that Clarke blamed them; if she had anywhere to run to, she’d have long left her lonely house in the woods.

So she’s utterly alone out here, and someone with a gun was close enough that she could hear them.

Carefully, as if any sound she made would draw marauders to her doorstep, Clarke set down the shirt she had been darning. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and her hands tremored like new leaves in a gust. It was dark out, the sun only a few hours away from setting and already gloom was settling over the landscape. Clarke’s tapers had been lit a while, and her supper cooked over the fireplace – her house was a veritable beacon in the dark. Hurriedly, she set about shutting the curtains, wincing at every scrape and scratch as she tugged the material across its metal runners.

Clarke spared a thought on how glad she was that in this house she had so few windows; in her old home in Philadelphia it took a whole army of servants to shut the house at night. Here, she only had three rooms, which was only half a dozen windows to cover. And here, in the sticks, she needn’t bother with a candle-snuffer, just blow them out and never mind the wax splatters. Clarke extinguished all but two of her lights.

She stayed by the window in the front room, the curtain half-raised warily as she peered out into the night. There was a rifle above the door, and a pistol hidden somewhere amongst her petticoats, and Clarke toyed with the thought of grabbing one of the weapons in preparation. She was a half-decent shot with either, her father had seen to that at least. 

Clarke sat, huddled with worry, in a chair pressed close to the window for what felt like hours. The flintlock rifle had long since made its way into her clammy hands, loaded and ready. The animals behind her house were quiet and abed, settled in since the shot had ruptured their peace.

Which was how Clarke heard the rustling so easily.

She pulled down the curtain in panic, heart hammering once again. Outside, an indeterminable distance away, heavy footfalls crushed the debris of the forest floor and laboured grunts followed each step. Clarke held her breath, and flinched when the footsteps gave way to a loud thump. The breaths turned into a wheeze, and for a few heartbeats that was all the noise there was.

Clarke steeled herself, readying the rifle against her shoulder as she nudged the curtain out of the way so she could see the front of her property. Barely two dozen feet away lay a man-shaped lump, unmoving apart from the heave of his shoulders.

Clarke lowered the rifle to unlatch the door that led outside, but it was soon readied again, pointing at the collapsed man. It was not wrong to be afraid by the sight of an unknown man on her land, especially not after the commotion that happened only a short time ago. But Clarke was not the sort to let a man die without first asking how he came to be here.

There was a whole host of reasons why, all of which flitted through Clarke’s mind as she eyed the man-lump. News was one reason, a chance to learn something new of the world. Then the thought came that he might be an interesting conversation maker – or a murderer. Even still, it’d been too long since she’d last seen another human being to just let one die in front of her.

Her steps towards the man were not strides, but her legs were unhindered by the breeches she wore instead of a dress – if she had to live the rest of her life by herself, she might as well do it in comfort. Clarke found that she could no longer deal with bustles, hoops, and the endless amounts of layers that formed the voluminous skirts of the city. Pilfered men’s clothing and badly tailored shirts would do her just fine.

The man on the ground was a particularly large man, Clarke observed as she drew closer, far too large for her to fight off if things were to go awry. He was on his side, curled in onto himself like a child, head tucked to his chest. But he didn’t move the slightest bit, even as she began to speak to him.

“You there, man on the ground,” Clarke paused, body poised, ready to turn on her heel and flee back to her house. “Can you hear me?”

Clarke moved her finger from the trigger to the guard as she lowered the muzzle to poke the man’s shoulder. He wheezed and grunted, but didn’t open his eyes. His face was dirtied and half-hidden by shadow, but Clarke could see the pain that caused his features to crease. She leant closer, eyes tracing over his features – as if she could tell by countenance alone if he was friend or foe. He was too muddied for her to tell.

His clothes were plain, not that of a soldier of any army, nor indicating that he was a man of means. His thick, woollen jacket was sturdy and well made, but several years out of fashion and irretrievably worn. Clarke used the musket to push him fully onto his back, and the well-worn jacket fell open to reveal a shirt heavily soaked with blood.

Clarke gasped, nearly dropping her rifle. At least now she knew that he wasn’t the one who had done the shooting, but the one who had been shot – which was neither a comfort nor a relief. She glanced at the man’s face again, witnessing the pain there. Clarke froze for a moment, her teeth worrying at her lip, sense warring with instinct. This man could be no good; he could be a thief or a criminal, a deserter from one of the armies. Or he could be a man who was simply caught by those sorts of bad people.

Either way, she couldn’t just let him _die._

“Oh, hell.” She swore.

Her mind made up, Clarke shouldered her rifle and began the struggle of getting the man to her house. He was just so _large_. And _heavy_. Even as she wedged her arms under his shoulders and locked her fingers across his chest, she could barely keep him up. Clarke was huffing and grunting as she dragged him across the forest floor, strands of pale hair escaping her braid and sticking to her sweaty forehead. She muttered and cursed (bad words she’d delightedly started using often now she was a woman of the wilds) as she struggled with the bulk of him. Her heels dug into the soft ground and she nearly slipped several times, her grip around the man tightening as she stumbled.

Inside the house, she left a muddy trail behind her as she pulled him towards her bedroom, and it was almost beyond her strength to get him up onto her bed. Clarke sat on the bed next to him, holding him against her as she worked to strip off the old, woollen coat. When he fell back down against her quickly dirtying covers, Clarke ran back into the front room, diving for the cabinet that held all her sewing equipment, then rummaged through the cupboard that hosted her meagre supply of liquor. She threw it down on the rug by the bed, then ferried in the lit tapers, lighting a few more on the way. The soft light the candles gave out did little to soften the sight before her, and Clarke had to shake herself to avoid becoming transfixed by the sight of so much blood.

“Hold yourself together, woman. He’s bleeding to death in your _house_.” Clarke reprimanded herself, rolling up her shirt-sleeves and readying herself. Even under all the grime, Clarke could see the man quickly becoming paler as she dithered.

Clarke threaded the needle before her hands could become slippery with blood, biting off the thread with her teeth. She pulled up the man’s shirt to inspect the wound, quickly taking in the circular musket-ball hole in his abdomen and the blood quickly fleeing his body, but when she slipped her hand under his body to find the exit wound she swore loudly.

There wasn’t one.

The ball was still inside him.

“Oh, good _lord_ ,” Clarke muttered, half-worried that the man before her might die, and half-annoyed that whoever shot him didn’t such a bad job of it. She was quickly growing attached to the idea of having a person to talk to, and the thought that someone might dangle him in front of her - only for him to die before they could exchange words - was enough to gain her ire.

Now, Clarke knew how to see to most injuries, her mother had made sure of that. ‘No matter how high a woman’s station, she ought to know how to soothe hurts’ was one of the many lessons that Clarke’s mother had forced upon her. As a result, Clarke’s embroidery was always clinical rather than beautiful, that skill so pivotal to healing not quite translating to Clarke’s ideals of art. But as well as Clarke could sew and concoct poultices, she’d never gone fishing for a musket-ball.

A grimly-humorous thought flitted through Clarke’s mind; it would be quite like stuffing a turkey in reverse.

She splashed brandy on her hands, on the wound, then down her neck - grimacing all the while at the man’s groans - and before she lost her nerve she plunged her fingers into his side.

He gasped immediately, pain no doubt ricocheting through him. Clarke apologised out loud and in her own mind, closing her eyes so she could concentrate on feeling for the ball and not on the anguished face beneath her. It was an awful feeling, to be messing about with someone’s innards, yet she persisted, bracing one hand on the man’s chest as she fished about. He was groaning and moaning beneath her, unconscious still but shrinking away from her touch.

Clarke yelled in triumph when she finally grasped the ball, withdrawing it as quickly as she could whilst still being gentle. As soon as the ball was clear of his body, the man relaxed, the lines on his mucky face easing out. But he was still pale and clammy, losing far too much blood – all of it fleeing onto Clarke’s sheets.

Clarke’s sewing was quick and neat, her stitches even and well placed as she pulled the wound close. It was a simple matter to pad the wound with a fresh sheet from the trunk under Clarke’s bed, ripping half of it into strips to hold the padding in place. The first few layers turned red almost immediately, but when Clarke was finished only pristine white bandages looked back at her.

For a while after she’d finished the operation, Clarke simply sat and watched the man sleep, each breath slowly getting stronger. Pain flashed across his face randomly, but he didn’t wake. But if she’d done her job properly, which she was sure she had, he would recover. Clarke very nearly joined him in sleep, the urge to close her eyes growing stronger with every moment that passed. She slumped back on her bed, exhausted from the initial panic and then the rush of activity – from the terror of holding a man’s life in her hands.

But then she became aware of the blood drying on her hands and arms, and of the feel of it across her face. It startled her, and she launched herself back into action, stepping towards the tall, free-standing looking-glass and gazing at the blood-stained woman it showed.

“I look like a wild woman,” she told herself quietly, squinting at her reflection, “Or one of those Scottish witches who dance naked around standing stones.”

Clarke scrubbed a hand across her face, grimacing as dried blood flaked and crumbled under her touch. Her shirt was most likely ruined, but her breeches were dark enough to weather the damage. She snagged a fresh set of clothes from her room, then ventured back into the front room.

A great, muddy trail had been left where she’d dragged the man through her house, and Clarke’s nose wrinkled at the sight of it. But that was a task for the morning; right now she had other things to deal with.

She removed the cooking pot from the fireplace, wrapping the handle and setting it to rest on a covered part of the dining table. Then Clarke went to the store room, fetching one of the casks she left out every time it rained. It was only half full, but more than enough to fill a few pots to put over the fire. She left them to warm as she fed herself, eating straight out of the cookpot instead of using some of her energy to fetch a bowl. The stew had thickened overmuch, but Clarke was currently too tired to care. She slumped into one of the chairs around the table and cradled her head in her hands, tiredness creeping on her quickly. She could feel the blood under her nails.

Clarke raised her head after a while, fairy certain she’d dozed off, and checked the water. It was hot, revealing that she had, in fact, fallen asleep at the table. Clarke stripped off every garment that had been touched by blood, dumping it into one of the pots, and took another off the fire to wipe herself down. The water coloured quickly in each, and Clarke tried not to think about it. The hot water didn’t quite wake her up, but she felt oddly aware of it as it trickled down her neck. Clarke stood, mostly naked, in her front room and spared a thought for how truly awful her evening had been.

Then she carried on scrubbing herself until she was free of blood.

She pulled on the fresh clothes and snagged her apron from by the fire, and heaved the third pot of water into her bedroom. The fireplace opposite her bed needed stoking, and she set to that as she let the water cool down slightly. Then she turned her attention to the unconscious, potentially dangerous man in her bed.

Clarke had no idea of who he was; whether he was a gentleman or a rouge; whether he might thank her for her services or murder and rob her. She had no idea whether she was right in saving him, or if she should have left him to die in the woods.

But such thoughts were useless now. He would live, and Clarke was responsible for that recovery. And as he was now her patient, Clarke would see him treated well.

The woollen coat she had tossed to the floor was picked up and folded neatly, and Clarke carefully set about removing the rest of the man’s clothing – all of it bloodied and dirtied beyond anything she’d ever seen. Blood that was older than what was on his shirt speckled his outfit, and Clarke had to firmly banish all thoughts to the back of her mind as she carried the garments out and added them to the pot containing her own sullied articles.  

Then she set about washing her patient.

The cloth she used came away nearly black on its first pass of his body, and did very little to lift the grime. Clarke wrung it out with a grimace, and went back to work, pleased in her work every time she revealed an inch more of clean skin.

It was dark skin, she noticed as she wiped, the colour of apple cider or an almond nut, and freckled liberally. Especially on his face, which was quite handsome beneath the dirt. Clarke moved her cloth carefully as she swept the muck from his angular jaw and plump lips, indecent thoughts springing to mind. She chastised herself, but more thoughts appeared as her eyes flickered down to strong shoulders and a well-defined chest. After all, she’d be one her lonesome for quite some time.

“He is my _patient_ ,” Clarke murmured softly as she wrung the cloth out a final time, having cleaned the man as much as she could in such dark light, “and injured at that.”

Clarke dressed him, still muttering even as she covered his admirable chest and his pleasing features were marred by the pain caused by the movement. She strode to the front door to toss out the dirtied water, hissing at the cool night air that greeted her.

“This isn’t Philadelphia anymore, Clarke,” she reminded herself firmly, “the men in these parts aren’t as the men in the city.”

“But they are still men,” she mused as she tidied up her sewing kit and replaced the brandy, “and men are the same no matter where they are.”

“I realise it’s quite lonely in these woods, and that you no longer have the men chasing you as you did in Philadelphia, but there is still such a thing as standards,” Clarke told herself as she covered the stew and put out the fire.

“Besides which, he is _wounded_ – quite gravely. And that’s if he even expresses any sort of interest.” Clarke paused as she checked her rifle over, snorting lightly, “Which he will, obviously. This might not be Philadelphia but he certainly isn’t blind.”

“I don’t think so, anyways.” She added as she pulled a blanket from the end of her bed,

“Though I suppose I won’t be able to tell until he wakes up. If he ever wakes up.” She pursed her lips as she tied her guests hand to the bedframe, knotting a spare strip of linen gently but firmly around his wrist.

“Of course,” she murmured as she settled down in the armchair in the bedroom, a blanket over her knees and the musket balanced on top, “none of this could matter anyways. He might murder me come morning.”

Then she went to sleep.

 

 

 


	2. fresh bread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one took a little longer, and im sorry if everyones a bit ooc, but its taking a little while to figure how to slide them into this au properly haha.  
> read and enjoy!!

When Bellamy woke it was to lazy, yellow sunlight warming his face, the smell of fresh bread on the air, and a rifle pointed at his face. He wasn’t sure which element was more surprising, considering he never truly expected to wake up again.

His eyes were sticky from sleep, and the light on his face was near blinding. Bellamy squinted up at the rifle, which was steady and loaded; and felt a scant few inches from his nose.

“Who are you?” a sharp, female voice demanded – unmistakable hostility and Englishness colouring her question. Bellamy’s blurred eyes made their way up the barrel of the musket she’s held, to the short, blonde woman staring him down. She wasn’t the sort of threat Bellamy was used to dealing with, but the ease with which she was aiming the gun made it quite clear that she was, in fact, a very big threat to him at that moment in time.

But Bellamy was tired and hurting and feeling slightly deranged, so recognition of threats and his response to them were, regrettably, a little fuzzed.

“Where am I?” Bellamy queried, coughing around the dryness in his throat. It is perhaps not what he should have said in the current situation, but the persistent banging in his head made it the only thing he could think to say. Overall, it wasn’t an un-sensible question, given the lack of well-bred English ladies so far removed from any city, but situationally, it wasn’t wise.

“You’ll answer my question before you start demanding answers of your own, thank you.” His captor perceived him carefully, no true display of emotion on her face. Her head was tilted slightly, akin to the way Bellamy had watched General Kane survey reports and maps; clinical and analytical. Or maybe she was more like a hen, figuring out the quickest way to peck a worm to death.

She jutted her chin towards Bellamy, blonde strands of hair falling from a badly-done braid. “Who are you?” She repeated.

Bellamy stayed quiet for a moment as he tried to think of an appropriate response, which was quite hard considering the thumping that was going on inside his skull.

“Bellamy,” He told her, but the gun didn’t waver in its aim, so he added a lie to the truth. “My name is Bellamy Miller.”

“Bellamy Miller.”  The woman repeated, cautious but not disbelieving. It felt odd using his best friend’s name as his own, but Bellamy was sure that Nathan wouldn’t mind if he ever found out. The rifle was withdrawn slightly, now aiming at his shoulder instead of his face. “You have no uniform, Mr Miller, therefore you cannot be in the army. Yet you bear far too many scars to be a farmer. So what are you then: a brigand? A _highwayman_?”

“Neither!” Bellamy exclaimed, indignation overriding good sense. The sudden rise in his temper has the musket re-aimed at his head, and the volume of his shout had Bellamy wincing at the painful it started within his mind. He tried to hold out his hands in a placating gesture, only to find that both were tied to the frame of the bed he was in. Bellamy gave out a startled laugh, admiring the solid knot work that decorated both his wrists.

It’s was perhaps an odd thing to smile at, but the obvious intelligence and cunning of the woman before him delighted him.

As did her skill with a firearm.

Bellamy wiped the smile from his face at the sight of the growing frown on his captor’s face.

“I’m neither a brigand or a highwayman. Nor a farmer for that matter, Miss…”

“ _Mrs_ Collins.” The woman said quickly, a quick flare of _something_ crossing her features. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared, and Bellamy would almost say she was afraid but for the proud set of her shoulders and the steel in her jaw. Perhaps it was anger, or grief. Mrs Collins could be a widow.

But her face eased back into neutrality with an ease that must have come from practice – no tight smile to cover discomfort, just the calm of a mirrored lake, maelstroms hidden within its depth.

It was not a skill Bellamy saw often outside his ring of spies, though perhaps politicians could sometimes hold a candle to the task. Or soldiers well practiced at giving bad news. But Mrs Collins couldn’t be any of those things; so she must be something different.

Yet as Bellamy gazed at her face, wondering at how she learnt such calm, his eyes were drawn eagerly to Mrs Collins’ features. Her lips were thin and firmly set, locked in place by a stubborn jaw. Her eyes were quick and assessing, bright blue and framed by pale lashes. All fair features, Bellamy noticed with ease – well paired with the plum voice and refined posture. It seemed even stranger at that moment that he might still be in the woods of New Jersey.

“Mrs Collins,” Bellamy repeated slowly, ignoring the temptation to smile around the name. Mrs Collins narrowed eyes regarded him differently now, the tilt of her head slowly morphing from analytical to something more subtle. Bellamy is suddenly sure that he won’t have his usual, female-orientated success with this woman. Or any success at all.

“What are you then, Mr Miller? Not a mercenary, surely.”

“I’m but a merchant, ma’am.”

Mrs Collins’ lips twitched at the address, and Bellamy began to think that perhaps she enjoyed their current situation.

“A merchant with so many bullet holes. One would think you’d give up after the first.”

“One would think.” Bellamy risked a grin at Mrs Collins, who finally lowered the rifle. She laid it to rest against the door frame.

“What do you sell, Mr Miller?” Mrs Collins asked, folding her arms.

“It depends on what I can buy,” He answered truthfully. Trading secrets wasn’t quite the same as most marketplace transactions, but they followed the same sort of rules. All trade required supply and demand, and sometimes enticements and force, “and what people want to be sold.”

Before he operated in secrets, Bellamy had been a man scraping to survive for himself and his young sister. Desperation has a way of opening up opportunities no available to most, and gives the inclination to use them. Bellamy was well suited to intelligence work not because he was a bad soldier, or because he was a born spy, but because he knew what needed to be done and had no problem with the solution.

Something for which he was lauded and scorned in equal measure.

“I’m a very good salesman.” Bellamy told his captor - or perhaps she was his nurse.

“I don’t doubt it, Mr Miller,” she replied, the definite beginnings of a smile now gracing her lips. ”But could you sell rain to the English?”

“I’d give it a good go,” he quipped, and received a delighted laugh in return. Mrs Collin’s face soon turned serious though, and she gestured towards him.

“Why were you shot?” She asked, and Bellamy replied quickly

“I was robbed.” He didn’t particularly like having to lie, as lies had a penchant for biting him firmly in the arse, but needs must in such situations.

“Of what?”

“My wares.”

“You’re awfully unspecific.”

Bellamy shrugged then winced, feeling an awful tugging near his gut. Mrs Collins took half a step forward, her face creased with worry and a hand outstretched.

“The stitching is good, but it won’t hold up if you test it so thoroughly,” She paused, withdrawing her hand, “I’d be very put-out if you made me redo it.”

Bellamy nodded absently, suddenly finding it quite hard to think over the pain throbbing in his abdomen. Mrs Collin said something else, but Bellamy didn’t hear of the blood pounding in his ears. The next thing he knew she was sat next to him on the bed holding a cup to his lips.

Steam wafted from it and hit his face, warming cheeks that had gone cold in pain.

“Come, drink up. This will help a little,” Mrs Collins soothed, helping him drink with one hand and using the other to keep the back of his neck still. He tried to hold the cup himself, but his bound hands couldn’t reach it. Whatever he was drinking was foul and Bellamy gagged on it, but Mrs Collins kept the cup in place, so Bellamy had no option other than to swallow.

When the cup was empty Mrs Collins finally took it away, looking at him carefully. She took a cloth from the table beside the bed to wipe away the sweat that had sprung into being on Bellamy’s forehead, and then used it to remove the remnants of the awful broth from around his mouth.

“Thank you,” Bellamy managed, albeit weakly, still gagging around the taste in his mouth. Mrs Collins eyes were still on him, highly alert as they moved over his face. She nodded.

“I’ll get you something to wash away the taste.”

The thundering in Bellamy’s head withdrew slowly but definitely, as did the pain surrounding his wound. Bellamy watched Mrs Collins leave the room, not even present enough to admire her backside as she went. His eyes slipped shut for a moment, and he let out a few long, shaky breaths.

He hadn’t felt this wrung out in a good few years – though it had been a while since he’d been so wounded. It took a lot to try and concentrate his thoughts, to try and think of plans to leave this woman’s house and return to the continental camp. He had reports to give and information to share with the general, all of the utmost importance. He couldn’t afford to be kept prisoner by some woman in the woods – no matter how pretty her face or comfortable her bed.

Bellamy opened his eyes and listened to the sound of Mrs Collin’s moving around in the room outside the bedroom door, his eyes going to the musket left in the doorway. It was an odd place to leave a gun; Bellamy would have taken it with him as he left. Though it wasn’t like he could reach it from his position tied to the bed.

At the thought of his bindings, Bellamy turned his attention to the ropes around his wrists. The knots were very well done; complicated naval things that Bellamy couldn’t even guess the name of, never mind escape from. But underneath the coarse rope his wrists were wrapped with soft, padded linen. So the ropes were to restrict and not to hurt; she feared his intentions but wasn’t so suspicious that she’d risk Bellamy injuring himself.

Mrs Collin’s came back into the room with a loaded tray in her arms which she placed next to the pile of linens on the bedside table. Then she helped Bellamy sit up, her hands gentle but firm under his arms as she pulled him into position. She let Bellamy rest against her while she piled pillows behind his back, his head heavy on her shoulder, and when Bellamy sat back against his new prop he was entirely sure he was leaning against pure down feathers.

Everything about Mrs Collins intrigued Bellamy, from the expensive pillows to her ease with a rifle. Even her braid was a point of interest – as what women didn’t know how to braid her own hair? Only those who had maids to do it for them, but women who live in small houses in the woods shouldn’t be able to afford a maid. But neither should they have London accents.

As she was spooning stew into a bowl for him, Bellamy waved his hands at her, drawing her attention to her well-done knots.

“Was it necessary to bind me _and_ aim a gun at my head?” He queried lightly,

“I didn’t know what kind of man you were, Mr Miller. I still don’t.” Mrs Collins replied primly.

“You know my name, and my occupation,” Bellamy supplied, his tone light and conversational. Hopeful, but not optimistic. Mrs Collins looked to be a woman who was careful and cautious, loaded with keen intelligence. Bellamy certainly wouldn’t let a potential enemy loose in his house.

“And what does that tell me?” Mrs Collins asked, tilting her head. She poured herself a glass of wine without looking, raising her eyebrows at Bellamy as the claret splashed into the wineglass.

“So you’re not going to untie me?” He asked, trying his hardest not to sound petulant or disappointed. Bellamy still wasn’t sure on how to play the next few hours; whether Mrs Collins would welcome the sight of him leaving, or if he’d be taken out back and have a bullet unloaded into his skull.

Mrs Collin’s pursed her lips, then took a sip of her wine. She drummed her fingers against the wineglass once, then set it down on the table next to the tray, before leaning across the bed – directly over his lap. Bellamy stared at the back of her head in surprise, trying to ignore the feel of a woman so close to him, or the fresh, clean smell of her hair. It had been an awfully long time since he’d been near a woman that wasn’t a camp follower, and longer still since he’d been around a woman who knew nothing of his position. But then he felt Mrs Collin’s fingers around his wrist, and watched as she deftly untied his left hand in a matter of seconds. Bellamy smile was wide at the ingenuity of guessing his non-dominant hand, and the boldness with which she did it.

Mrs Collin’s pulled back and brushed her hair away from where it had fallen into her eyes, a triumphant smirk on her lips. She pushed the bowl into his bound hand and tossed him a spoon to catch with his other.

“I suppose you can feed yourself now?”

Bellamy nodded, then grinned. “Are you telling me that if I couldn’t you’d feed me yourself?”

“No,” Mrs Collins replied with a clever smile, going back to her wine, “If you couldn’t feed yourself you’d starve.”

Bellamy laughed aloud, even as Mrs Collins stood and retreated into an armchair across the room from him. A pile of blankets were folded and stacked neatly on the floor next to it, obviously where she had slept the night previous. Or nights; Bellamy wasn’t sure.

“The bad tasting stew is entirely your fault, Mr Miller.” Mrs Collins told him primly as she settled into the armchair, tucking her legs underneath her skirt. Bellamy blinked at her.

“…my fault?” He echoed, looking between the woman and her stew.

“It was nearly done when I found you half-dead on my doorstep. By the time I’d made sure you wouldn’t die in the night, it was close to ruined.”

“Oh.” Bellamy said, poking the stew with his spoon.

“There’s bread, though,” She pointed to the tray, and Bellamy reached for one of the buns, “That might go down a bit better.”

Bellamy ate in silence, grimacing a little at the taste of the truly awful stew. Mrs Collins kept her wineglass close to her face and watched him over the rim, eyes careful as ever. If not for the rope around his wrist, it could have been quite a domestic scene.

Mrs Collins certainly made quite the picture all by herself: blonde hair bathed in light, her haughty, noble features softened against a rural background. Her dress wasn’t overly simple, but well suited to her lifestyle on a small homestead. Birds fluttered up her skirts and across her bodice, which fit snugly around an ample chest.

Bellamy wondered if there really was a Mr Collins, about to come home to his lovely wife, or if Mrs Collins was a widow like he thought. Either option was a waste; such a beautiful woman shouldn’t be hidden away in the woods, with or without a husband.

His wandering thoughts distracted his hands, and Bellamy only realised when he felt the burn on stew splashing onto his chest, searing through the fabric of his shirt.

Which, on closer inspection, wasn’t actually _his_ shirt.

“Where are my clothes?” He all but blurted, staring down his body in confusion.

Mrs Collins snorted. “I could hardly go to all the effort of cleaning you up just to leave you in your mucky outfit now, could I?”

Bellamy lifted the coverlets and wondered at his legs, dressed in foreign trousers.

“You stripped me down? Whose clothes are these?”

“Yes, I did. And please, Mr Miller, don’t act so scandalized; it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” Mrs Collins gestured with the glass, propping her chin on her hand. When Bellamy looked closer he would say that it was very strong wine from the way Mrs Collins was lightly swaying. Either that or she’d had another glass before she brought the tray in.

“Uh, right. Of course.”

“And the clothes are spares. Old ones that I never got around to throwing out.”

Bellamy inspected the shirt, avoiding the slop of stew, and came to the conclusion that the clothes were in no state to be thrown out. Perhaps the cuffs needed to be darned, or a button was missing, but even still, the collar was only a season out of fashion at most

“Right, okay. Thank you, Mrs Collins.”

Mrs Collins hummed and nodded, waving her hand again. Her eyes went to the floor and her brow furrowed in thought. It was a marked change from the assessing woman who had aimed a gun at him only a short while before. Bellamy was left to wonder whether something like panic has seized her; nerves at having a stranger in her house, or whether she had always been terrified but just a good actress.

“You have a rather large collection of books,” Bellamy noted after swallowing enough bread to deaden the taste of the stew.

“For a woman, you mean?” Mrs Collins replied archly, looking up from the floor. It seemed as if she were struggling to reign in her emotions as he had before, tilting her chin up and taking another sip of her wine.

“For anyone,” Bellamy said, gazing across her shelves. And truly, it was an impressive collection. Bellamy had only seen a few libraries in his time, and most men he knew only had a few titles to their name – and that was if they could even read. Greek letters caught his eye, gathered on a single shelf. Next to those books were more in a whole assortment of languages; Spanish, French, German, even Dutch. Bellamy had a solid notion that Mrs Collins would be able to read all of those books unaided.

“I would ask to borrow one, but I’m not sure I’ll be here long enough to finish it,” Bellamy said, staring somewhat longingly at English translations of both the Odyssey and the Iliad. Mrs Collins took another sip off wine.

“I would think you’d manage it,” She said, turning her head to see the books Bellamy eyeing.

“What do you mean?” He asked, heart lurching suddenly in his chest. Mrs Collins glanced at him in surprise, eyes narrowing at the frantic edge in his voice.

“Mr Miller, if you think I’m letting you out of this house to traipse through the woods while you’re still so injured, then you’ll have quite a surprise coming. It wouldn’t do for me to save your life and then let your risk it again so thoroughly.” Mrs Collins said firmly.

“But—”

“No, Mr Miller. Simply no. I shan’t let you kill yourself out of your own stupidity.”

“Oh.” Bellamy replied, wishing he had his own glass of wine to drink. He was sure that the alcohol would numb both the hole in his side, and the knowledge that should his detention reach the ears of his peers, he’d never be able to live it down. Not to mention it might stop his tongue from having to taste Mrs Collins’ stew.

It was awful stew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk when ill get the next chapter done, but pls do tell me if u liked it so far <3


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